Pirouette
by Sandshrew777
Summary: Unable to sleep, Captain Kirk roams the corridors of the Enterprise. He finds an unexpected sight in the form of one Ensign Pavel Chekov. Chekov/Kirk friendship. A pseudo-sequel to my one-shot, Doublemint, although you don't have to read it.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this universe. I barely own anything in the real world.**

**Author's Note: This is a sort-of sequel to my one-shot, "Doublemint." It's not necessary to have read it; I allude to it only once and only briefly, and it's not of much consequence, so don't worry! Not that you would, but...anyway: if you do read it, it does help establish Chekov's character. Please do read it if you can, and please enjoy and review this one. Thanks.**

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Someone is singing, Jim realizes. He's been walking the corridors since four in the morning since he can't sleep these days without drinking and he can't be drunk too often since he's the captain. The exercise does him good anyway.

Someone is singing and he doesn't know where it's coming from. There are so many rooms on his ship that he's embarrassed to admit - and consequently never will - he's never been in half of them. But there are only so many girls to make out with and each one still manages to find a new room to drag him off into.

Someone is singing and he can barely hear it. That doesn't mean that the singing isn't loud, just that he's pretty close to it. There are a few doors in this corridor and he realizes these are the officers' quarters. He's never down here very often except to deliver a few light reprimands in person, away from others who would tease him or those he's correcting.

Someone is singing and it's a guy. He's surprised he couldn't realize that at first, but it's not like he's a singing connoiseur. He knows the difference between good singing and bad singing through his gut and that's about it. Music's just a beat to dance with on the floor or fuck with in the bedroom.

Someone is singing and he's behind this door. Jim's got his ear to it and he's certain the sound's coming from behind it. He fumbles in his pockets for his captain's card key to let himself in - why, he doesn't know, but he doesn't care about that, ever-impulsively charging forward.

Someone is singing and as the door slides open he realizes it's Chekov. Jim stands in the doorway, his eyes surely wide and his mouth just barely open. He can't believe this.

Chekov is singing and it's beautiful. The song is light, like glistening feathers, dancing off that Russian accent in trills and scooping melody. His tenor glides over the notes with ease and although Jim can tell he's a little sharp it doesn't matter. It is beauty.

Chekov is singing and he's dancing along with it. His body slides, elegant, flexible, toned. He's only in a pair of tight black pants and the sweat flies off him as he twists from position to position, but it's not hurried. It's as slow as the ballad he's blasting from his lips, methodical and riveting.

Chekov is singing and it's like a routine. Jim could compare it to Spock's meditation, to Sulu's katas, to his own workouts in the gym. Chekov has done this before but it doesn't seem routine, not when Chekov has his eyes closed and has that rawness in his voice like a cry just barely restrained from losing control.

Chekov is singing the final note and it's a glory note, high and strong. His body arches into a figure skater's pose, his right leg just barely bent and his weight all on it, the left thrown back high into the air. His hands are stretched out, reaching for something.

Jim feels oddly naked, unclean somehow, as if he needs a fig leaf to cover himself up.

Chekov opens his eyes, sees Jim, and promptly falls over.

"Keptain!" he squeaks from the carpet, stumbling to his feet, springing off a quick salute, fishing a black t-shirt from the floor and thrusting himself into it. "Ah...sorry about zhat. I, er, I hope you vere not vaiting long, sir."

He'd waited all his life to hear something like that, something so damned _beautiful_.

Hm? Oh, right, he was supposed to talk now.

"What was the song about?" Jim asks sharply in reply, ignoring Chekov's stammering.

"Ah...it is Russian tale. Mama taught me it, sir," Chekov manages, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You sing it when you miss her?" Jim asks. Why is he so intrusive? Maybe it's a defense mechanism. He's been stripped to his basics and he's almost lashing out for some reason. It's all ridiculous but he's been emotionally compromised by this and he's curious as to why.

"Da, sir," Chekov whispers, breathing heavily, blushing. Jim can see the blush extends to his chest and neck, such a bright color against the usually pale skin.

"It's beautiful," Jim says, packing all the tangled emotion he's got going on right now into those two words. He wants Chekov to understand, to get that he's in awe of his boy in front of him right now who can boil the essence of...everything down into a simple song and dance.

"Zhank you, Keptain," he says and it's loaded with so much that even Jim notices the awe in his words, an incredulousness that anyone could think this about simple little Chekov, a bit of the wavering self-confidence ever since Vulcan...

Jim stares at Chekov for a few moments, wandering through his thoughts. Chekov looks everywhere but at Jim, still in full-on blush, then finally finds Jim's gaze.

"Vas...zhere anyzing you vanted, sir?" he asks. The accent is thick and his voice is clogging.

Jim is tempted to say something like, "I didn't know I did, but I found it," but he's no sentimental sap and Chekov wouldn't appreciate such tawdry words.

So he says, "No, that was it, Pavel. Thank you."

And he smiles at Chekov's wonder that the captain _used his first name_ and he resolves to do this more often, to tell the people he'd trust with his life in half an instant that he's more than a reckless asshole who loves to break the rules and challenge authority and -

It's four in the morning and Chekov's not asleep and what are those bags doing under his eyes, his seventeen year old eyes?

"Actually," Jim says, turning around in the open doorway - had he been on his way out? He didn't even remember doing that, he was so _tired_. "Why are you still awake?"

Chekov blanches, his face going paler than it rightly should, but the words come out nice and smooth.

"I had duty zis afternoon, sir. I just voke up two hours ago," he says.

But the words are too smooth. Chekov is looking him right in the eyes - he never does that if he can help it - and one of those bags twitches just slightly.

"Try again," Jim says, crossing his arms over his chest, smirking a little.

Chekov keeps his gaze for a few seconds longer - admirable, for him - and then his shoulders slump and he falls down to sit on his bed.

"Haff seat, please, sir," he says.

The command, though coached in pleading, is unusual - Chekov's never commanding, even when he's reading Jim's orders off to the ship. It's so unusual that Jim doesn't mind letting the door panel slide shut again and pulling out a hardbacked wooden chair and sitting on it backwards, hands hanging over the back of it.

Jim waits. Chekov runs his hands through his hair so it stands it up and flies out everywhere. When he finally speaks, his hands are clasped on his lap and he's staring straight ahead into a full-length mirror. Jim follows his gaze and sees that Chekov looks even more tired in the reflection, even more than Jim himself.

Maybe it's from that operation Bones told him Chekov had had, but he didn't know a lot about it; Bones had been light on the details. Something about a polyp and removing it, no need to worry, and that was about it. Jim hadn't asked for much more - Bones knew what he was doing.

"Zhere...have been dreams, lately. I haff been dreaming, I mean," Chekov starts, interrupting Jim's thoughts.

"Nightmares," Jim says. It's not a question - it all seems to be falling into place now; Chekov's been guilty since Vulcan and he's been having nightmares. It makes so much sense. Why didn't he think of it earlier?

"Nyet. Vell, not entirely, sir," Chekov admits, looking away from the mirror and into his hands instead.

Jim blinks. Wrong. He's wrong?

Well, how about that. Chekov's full of surprises this morning. He's almost kinda proud of the kid, except this is getting a little dark and he doesn't want to be proud of Chekov having to go through this kind of thing.

"I...haff been hawing dreams," Chekov repeats. "Zey...zey are wery veird."

"What kind of dreams?" Jim presses, gently.

Chekov twists his fingers into steeple-locks, over and atop one another, crossing and uncrossing them. Then he finally stops and rubs his face with them, as if he's trying to clean it.

"Sexual dreams," Chekov whispers.

Jim almost laughs out loud - only Chekov's completely torn down, shell-shocked look saves him from doing it.

"Is that all?" he asks, trying to coach it tenderly, fatherly, imagining what he would have wanted when he was younger even though he knows he would have ignored it anyway.

"Nyet. Zhere...zhere is a person. A person keeps appearing in zhem," Chekov says.

Ooh! Now it's getting interesting. Jim resists the urge to clap his hands together like a fourteen-year-old girl and instead just grins.

"Well. C'mon, Chekov. Spill. Who is she? Uhura? That cute little intern Bones has followin' him around?" Jim prods.

Chekov continues to stare off near the door. He doesn't respond.

Jim's grin slips from his face. Who could Chekov be so nervous about? Who could it...

...oh, no. Oh no. It _couldn't_ be.

"It's a guy, isn't it?" he asks.

Chekov slowly nods.

"It...it's not me, is it, Chekov? 'Cause, y'know, I'm flattered, but I - " Jim rambles.

Chekov jerks back to life, holding his hands out, shaking them, eyes wide.

"Nyet! Nyet, nyet, is not you, Keptain, do not vorry," he says, and Jim isn't too caught up with the relief to notice there's a bit of sadness in Chekov's voice. It's like Jim forgot to say something...

Oh!

"Well, c'mon, Chekov, spill already. The suspense is killing me, kid," he says, the grin running back onto his face again.

Something in Chekov brightens - it might be his eyes, Jim doesn't know, he's a captain not an artist - and he says, "You mean...you are not...disgusted?"

"Of course not," Jim says immediately, getting up off the chair and sitting down next to Chekov on the bed, slinging an arm around his tiny shoulders. "What'd'ya think this is, 2000?"

Chekov sneaks a glance over and it all breaks, all into one brilliant, smiling laugh. Jim smiles back - it's about time this conversation lightened up.

"So. When are you gonna tell him?" Jim asks once Chekov has calmed down again.

"I...you zhink I should?" Chekov asks.

"Of course. In fact, I think you should go do it right now. C'mon," Jim says, pulling a stunned Chekov to his feet. He drags him to the door by the right arm and Chekov finally digs his feet into the brown carpet about halfway there.

"Keptain! He vill be sleeping!" Chekov protests.

"Well, duh. You can just climb right in with him. A little wake-up make-out session," Jim suggests, grinning that wicked grin he knows he's got downpat.

"Sir!" Chekov screeches, his eyes incredibly wide, "I vill not vake up Mister Sulu! He vorked wery late last night taking ower for me so ve could finish new flightplan!"

"SULU?" Jim crows. Chekov smacks his forehead with his left open palm, Jim still tugging on his right arm. "Well. I'm sure he wouldn't mind, Chekov. Come along!"

"Keptain, please! Zhis is most inappropriate!" Chekov yells.

"I know," Jim says at last, letting go of Chekov's arm, leaning up against the door, "I'm just being as ridiculous as you are."

"Oh," Chekov breathes, grins a little, shakes his head, tosses a little laugh into the air.

"Tell him tonight," Jim advises.

Chekov nods.

"Sir?" he then asks, opening his arms wide.

Jim grins and opens his, still leaning against the door, closing his eyes and waiting for the bear hug impact.

And then there's a beep, a click, and suddenly he's on his ass in the hallway, Chekov grinning with one hand on the doorpad, the other supporting him by pushing on the doorframe.

"Zhank you, sir," Chekov says - means it, Jim can tell - then lets the door slip shut again.

"No problem, kid," Jim mutters, smiling.

Then the pain comes and he gingerly drags himself to his feet, hand rubbing his aching behind.

"That little bastard," Jim adds, then heads off to his room to try for a power nap which he finally, after two weeks of failing, finally manages, even if he only sleeps for an hour and a half.

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**Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Please, please review, if only to say "hippopotamus." Of course, that's only if you mean "hippopotamus" as "good job." :)**


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